


The One Where Sansa's A Music Major and Margaery's Kind Of A Pretentious Asshole

by rachelisnotcool



Series: That Weirdly Specific Canadian University AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 23:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3668673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelisnotcool/pseuds/rachelisnotcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery Tyrell is standing in the doorway, looking concerned. Margaery Tyrell, who never shuts up in class discussions, and carries around a criminally expensive camera everywhere she goes, and probably has a Tumblr blog consisting only of various pictures of trees or something with barely different filters captioned by pretentious, overused John Green or Nicholas Sparks quotes. Margaery Tyrell, who is also gorgeous and ridiculous and opinionated and gorgeous. Who Sansa might be harbouring a secret crush on.</p>
<p>"Fuck," thinks Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Sansa's A Music Major and Margaery's Kind Of A Pretentious Asshole

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Sarah (sunkelles) for letting me ramble into her inbox about this AU and encouraging me.

Sansa barrels down the stairs of her residence building, nearly knocking over several laughing boys in the process. They swear at her, but she ignores them, shoving her way through the double doors.

 

It’s freezing out. Not the hovering around zero kind of cold that people whine about sometimes, but the dangerous type of cold, the kind that seeps into your bones and finds itself a home there, turning your bone marrow to ice. Sansa’s no stranger to cold-- she’s from northern Québec, she knows what cold is-- but this winter feels harsh even to her, and she curses herself for being stupid enough not to bring a coat.

 

The snow is falling hard as well. Looking at it, she wonders if “falling” is even the right word. She’s pretty sure there’s a velocity at which falling snow stops being falling snow and starts being a health risk, but she’s already outside and she hasn’t missed a lecture, ever, and she’s sure as hell not going to start now.

 

But there’s snow everywhere, all over the ground and falling from the sky. Pretty soon the wind picks up and Sansa isn’t even sure whether the snow blowing in her face is in fact snow and not tiny demons sent by Satan or Voldemort or Cronus or an exceedingly vengeful witch sent to destroy her perfect attendance record that she’s kept since high school.

 

Pretty soon she can’t see three feet in front of her, and she’s forced to acknowledge that she’s not getting to class. Hell, she doesn’t even know where class _is_ anymore.

 

She sees an empty shed by the side of the road and admits defeat, tugging at the handle and pulling at the door open. Her fingers feel less like appendages and more like ten baked potatoes strapped to her palm and she’s pretty sure her legs are literally frozen. She’s about to give up on the door when someone pushes it open from the inside.

 

The swinging door catches her sharply in the chest and she’s knocked over into a nearby snowbank, all of the air in her lungs violently expelled. When she catches her breath, she rolls over in the snow to see who the asshole that all that all but assaulted her with a door is.

 

Margaery Tyrell is standing in the doorway, looking concerned. Margaery Tyrell, who never shuts up in class discussions, and carries around a criminally expensive camera everywhere she goes, and probably has a Tumblr blog consisting only of various pictures of trees or something with barely different filters captioned by pretentious, overused John Green or Nicholas Sparks quotes. Margaery Tyrell, who is also gorgeous and ridiculous and opinionated and _gorgeous_. Who Sansa might be harbouring a secret crush on.

 

_Fuck_ , thinks Sansa.

 

“You okay?” Margaery asks. Sansa stands and brushes the snow off of her jeans with as much dignity as she can.

 

“Great,” Sansa says, as passive aggressively as she can manage without sounding outright angry. She finds she’s too embarrassed to look Margaery in the eye, and instead focuses on the sharp curve of her winged eyeliner and hopes Margaery doesn’t notice. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be heading to class.”

 

“Come on, Stark,” says Margaery, “you don’t want to walk in a blizzard.”

 

“It’s not even that cold out.”

 

“It’s minus fifteen, plus windchill.”

 

“I’m from Northern Québec,” says Sansa. “That’s not cold unless you’re American or Torontonian.”

 

Margaery feigns hurt. “I’m from Toronto.”

 

“That explains it, then,” Sansa says, and she turns to go to class. Or back to her dorm. Wherever Margaery isn’t, she thinks, is the place to be right now.

 

Margaery groans and grabs her arm.

 

“Look, it’s snowing. We’re both freezing. We’re not doing anything that matters in PoliSci and my phone is dying. You’re shivering and I’m bored. We don’t have to talk or anything.”

 

“Fine,” says Sansa as she steps into the shed. She can feel herself softening and she hates herself for it. Margaery Tyrell is an overly ambitious, annoying, pretentious, frustrating _hipster_ of a person, but she’s a really hot hipster, and she has really nice boobs. Not that Sansa has looked. She gives her head an internal shake and brushes past Margaery slightly faster than necessary, hoping Margaery can’t sense what she’s thinking of. Margaery grins and Sansa wonders if she’s a mind reader. She clears her throat.

 

“I’ll going to email the prof--” Sansa starts.

 

“Don’t bother. No reception.”

 

Sansa sighs and puts her phone back in her pocket. She hadn’t noticed before, but the shed isn’t entirely empty. One dingy lightbulb hangs from the ceiling, flickering, playing at providing light but not doing enough to make out anything but vague shapes and colours of the room. She thinks there’s a poster tacked up on one of the walls. She squints at it.

 

“Fall Out Boy?” she asks Margaery.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Margaery explains, “I hang out in here sometimes. If you bring a flashlight, you can read pretty easily. It’s pretty warm when it’s nicer out. And people don’t bother you. And I like Fall Out Boy. I think the fan reception to Folie à Deux was an interesting example of how the pop punk genre facilitates a sort of Peter Pan complex.” She pauses. “And it was a good album, so I don’t get the whining.”

 

Sansa is caught halfway between rolling her eyes at how utterly pretentious Margaery is and hanging off her every word. She elects to stay quiet and avoid revealing too much.

 

“Anyway,” Margaery continues, steamrolling over the silence like a skee ball thrown too hard at the ball-hop. “What do you like? I hardly know anything about you.”

 

“I don’t know,” says Sansa. “Stuff.”

 

“Thanks for the truly vivid imagery, Stark. What’s your major?”

 

“Music.”

 

“Mine’s PoliSci.”

 

“Mm.”

 

They sit in an awkward silence. Margaery fiddles with a leaf left on the ground from the autumn. Sansa begins a game of 2048 on her phone and makes it to 256 before losing.

 

“Try keeping the largest tile in the corner,” Margaery suggests.

 

Sansa moves the tile to the centre out of spite and loses at 32. She clicks her phone off and turns to face Margaery and tries to look annoyed and intimidating. It doesn’t seem to work, because Margaery cracks a smile.

 

“Can I go to class now?” Sansa asks.

 

“No. Okay,” says Margaery, “you know fuck, marry, kill? Let’s play it.”

 

Sansa heaves a sigh. She’s not in class and she’s with Margaery Tyrell, so it’s clearly not a regular day. She might live another hundred years and never have a day this unSansaish again, so she figures she might as well discuss her sex life with girl who’s banged everyone on campus. “Fine.”

 

“Ygritte Woods, Jeyne Poole, Daenerys Targaryen.”

 

Sansa thinks about it for a minute. She laughs. “Okay, Jeyne’s a good friend, so I’ll marry her. Have you seen Daenerys Targaryen’s cheekbones? I’ll do it with her.”

 

Margaery laughs. “Do it? Are you twelve?”

 

“Oh, shut up. And I’ll kill Ygritte, I guess.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

Sansa shrugs. “I don’t know her very well.”

 

“Fair enough. Okay, Jeyne Westerling, Asha Greyjoy, Joffrey Baratheon.”

 

Sansa tenses visibly.

 

“What? Is something wrong?”

 

Sansa shakes her head.

 

“It’s fine if you don’t want to--”

 

“No,” Sansa says. “No, it’s just... Joffrey’s my ex.”

 

Margaery bursts out laughing.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, heaving for air. “It’s not funny.” Then she cracks up again.

 

“No, I get it. He’s a dick.”

 

“How’d that happen?” Margaery asks, trying desperately to regain her composure.

 

“We went to high school together, and he was a year older than me. Student council president, played sports, was always dating someone, that kind of thing. And our dads were good friends, so they set us up. And it sort of went okay until he started being awful to my friends and to me. And handsy. Really handsy and pushy and Jon, Robb, and Arya had to get rid of him.”

 

“I’m sorry,” says Margaery. She sounds like she means it, too. Sansa can’t recall ever being entirely sure Margaery means anything, but she sounds genuine.

 

“Thanks,” says Sansa, oddly touched. “And they egged his car, too.”

 

Margaery laughs.

 

“You should’ve seen the look on Cersei Lannister’s face, though. She was _livid_.” Sansa straightens and does her best impression of Cersei Lannister. “ _I’m telling you, Robert, if I ever find out who did this..._ ”

 

Margaery cracks up. They sink into silence again, but it’s a comfortable one this time. Margaery thinks, fiddling with her leaf. “Okay, I have another one.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Meera Reed, Brienne, and um, Margaery Tyrell.”

 

“That loser?” Sansa laughs. “I’ll kill Margaery.”

 

“Hey!” Margaery protests, but she’s laughing.

 

“I’ll marry Brienne...” Sansa says, and then she trails off, swallowing a lump that’s suddenly formed in her throat.

 

“What about the other two, Stark?” Margaery asks, gently. She shifts closer to Sansa on the cold cement floor.

 

“They’d have to buy me dinner first.”

 

“What if they were stuck in a shed in a snowstorm, though?”

 

“Then I guess they’d have to get creative,” says Sansa. They laugh. Then, a palpable tension overtakes the air, and Sansa and Margaery feel themselves getting closer. Margaery reaches over to brush a stray hair off of Sansa’s face.

 

“Can I kiss you?” she asks gingerly.

 

Sansa makes no reply, and presses her lips to Margaery’s. The kiss is short, awkward, full of fumbling hands and nose bumping, but they find the swing of it, and it’s a few minutes before they have to stop to breathe.

 

“Wow,” Sansa breathes.

 

“Seconded,” says Margaery.

 

They go at it again. 

 

Sansa thinks she could maybe get used to this.


End file.
